


Sanctuary

by DanceEsmeralda



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Violence, Erik needs a hug, F/M, Fluff, Isabel needs a hug, OC, Post-Poto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25488256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanceEsmeralda/pseuds/DanceEsmeralda
Summary: Isabel escapes the slums of London in search of a new life. Will she find it?
Relationships: Erik/Original Female Character(s), Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This fic is also posted on FF under the same name. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter one. 

His face, though mundane to outsiders, terrified her more than anything. Under the lens of her gaze his ordinary features melted away and in their place, shadowed and sharp, pure malice was embodied there. In his nose, short and pointed, his eyes, bright blue and brimming with anger, and in his lips, curled at the corners in customary snarl. He was the monster under her bed and she knew it was only a matter of time before his grip pulled her under. 

Life in London, despite the sycophantic articles in the newspapers Isabel managed to swipe from the stands, was not a haven of industry and civilisation. Not in Whitechapel anyway. Her home life, with him, was nightmarish and to escape it sometimes it felt as if she had to stroll through hell. Starving children, dying women, and prowling pickpockets all framed by a black curtain of smog. Smog that felt like it pooled in your chest and suffocated you. Still she had to brave it, she had not quite lost her desire for living and a need for food and shelter drove her out in to the dangerously unhealthy streets of the London slum. All day long she sold flowers, buds that she bulk bought twice a week from an old seller who ran his stall on London Bridge. It was a trek to get to him but he was the cheapest supplier. She would begin her days hanging around the market squares, trying to catch people as they bought their morning bread and milk. She swung her basket of flowers with feigned jollity and tried to target men, guilting them into buying flowers for their spouses. Women never bought themselves flowers, she noted, this seemed wrong. In the long hours her mind often wandered to a hypothetical dream world where she was rich enough to spare money. Make no mistake she would buy herself flowers - baskets and baskets full. Roses, Peonies, Freesias, Daisies, the more the merrier. She didn’t mind shoving wildflowers in with the cultivated blooms. She liked the clash. After eight or ten hours of wandering and selling, waiting until most people had scurried off home from work and the night was beginning to rear it’s head, Isabel would count her earnings and decide which flowers would live until tomorrow and which she would have to throw away. Always though, even if she had earned hardly anything, especially then, she would pick a flower in full bloom. The prettiest one left. And thread it in her straggly, unbrushed, filthy hair. It was the only moment in her day that she felt human. The money was difficult. She’d hide a little of it in her shoe and then buy a loaf of bread - buying it at night ready for the next morning. It was cheaper that way, although the bread was always slightly stale and cold. Tom usually didn’t leave enough for the morning anyway but one lives in hope. Then she would walk home. The walk from her usual patch to the small tenement house she shared with two other families was only five or ten minutes but she would drag it out. Let the night envelope her. She would walk slowly and happily because for a few minutes she was just a young girl walking home with a flower in her hair, bread in her basket, money in her shoe and it was all hers. 

Her heart would begin to beat faster when the door would come in to view at the end of the road. The shabby, splintering door desperately in need of a new paint job. The number 21 scraped in at the top with a key. It was always unlocked and Isabel would take a breath, gently remove the flower, waft it beneath her nose briefly and then mournfully throw it away before opening the door.

The families who lived in the floors above her rarely bothered Isabel and Thomas, only to occasionally creep down the stairs and through the door to the outside privy. They never interfered, no matter what they heard. 

As usual Tom was sat by the weakly spitting fire that warmed the whole house through a slim chimney. His head snapped up as she walked in and his body tensed, alert. She handed him the basket and money straight away, then quietly and confidently under the guise of needing the privy walked back out into the garden. Hiding under the shadows and eyes darting to make sure no one was watching her out of a window, she pulled out the tiny cigarette box that she kept her squirrelled away earnings, adding the coins with a clink and then quickly returning it. She never stayed long enough to count it or to even properly think of what she was doing. She was too scared for that. Back at the house Tom was tucking into the bread, the money nowhere to be seen and never to be mentioned again by either of them. 

The scary thing about Tom was that he didn’t drink, nor did he indulge in cocaine, he didn’t even smoke cigarettes. There was no trigger for his anger, no addiction that fuelled it. He was just Tom, and that was terrifying. Isabel sat carefully by the fire, resting for the first time since six that morning. Her joints cracked and protested as she settled but she didn’t make a sound, sounds easily riled Tom. He ate steadily, polishing of half a loaf and gulping down a big mug of milk - probably the last dregs of the bottle before silently leaving to use the privy. While he was gone Isabel pounced, ripping off a big chunk of bread and shoving it in her mouth. She had already learned to drink the milk before Tom got hold of it.

She’d barely swallowed her meagre supper when footsteps sounded down the pathway and the door slammed open again. Isabel could almost hear the neighbours upstairs holding their collective breath -she did not have time to do the same. Hands scrabbled and grabbed the collar of her dress that bunched at the back of her neck, dragging her backwards off the chair. Tom adjusted his grip on her shoulders and violently turned her to face him. His face was red and his blue, watery eyes shone. In one of his hands he gripped a crushed flower; the single peony she had threaded in her hair and she understood immediately.   
He bellowed in her face, ‘what the hell is this?!’  
His spit landed in her eye and she squinted but this was the only reaction she gave him.   
This seemed to incense him further and with a quick jab he hit her nose with the fist that squeezed the flower so hard that petals fell down between them like a perverted marriage celebration.   
‘If you’re not selling them what the fuck are you doing all day?’ He shrieked and grabbed the back of her hair, twisting it in his fist.   
He kicked the back of her ankles and her knees buckled her weight being held entirely by her hair, he got close to her ears and began whispering accusations but she barely took them in. One because hair scalp burned, she was in agony. The second reason was that she’d heard it all before. She was a slut. A harlot. A prostitute. He began to kick her, the whispers turned to screams and as she lay on the ground the only thing she could see beside her on the dirty stone floor was the crushed flower, discarded in his rage, and she felt indignation rise in her for the first time. She had to go. Over the years she had squirrelled money away ‘just in case’ without really letting herself think about what that would be. Now she knew. She knew that if she stayed on the floor, if she stayed with him, she would only ever be a crumpled flower whose beauty and potential would never be reached. If she ever wanted to live, not just in the brief walk home, but properly, really, live then she had to leave and she had to do it now. She let him beat her into exhaustion, holding her gaze steadily on the peony and eventually he tired. Cursing and spitting, stumbled out in to the darkness to spend her wages on god knows what. 

She unsteadily rose to her feet. It took her a few tries to get her balance but she managed. She began to plan, where could she go? London was out of the question, despite its size she was known in most of the slums and word travelled fast. She’d have no hope of finding shelter in the wealthier parts. So where? She could stay in Britain but had no relatives to take sanctuary with- sanctuary. The word struck her deeply and a memory long hidden resurfaced. Her maman, before she died, used to tell her stories of her home in Paris, of the books she had read and the stories she had heard. Isabel’s favourite, the one she begged her mother to repeat night after night and which she would oblige in lyrical french, was the story of Notre Dame, of the hunchbacked bellringer who rescued the kind, beautiful girl and pounded on the doors of Notre Dame screaming for sanctuary. Perhaps it could be her sanctuary too. Her mind made up Isabel picked up her basket, wrapped up the last bit of bread and scanned the room for her belongings. Her heart panged as she realised that all she really had was a spare dress and some sanitary rags. She blinked away sudden hot tears and resolutely walked out of the house, straight to the tin in the bushes. The darkness rendered it impossible to see how much was in the tin so she shoved it to the bottom of her basket, pulled her shawl up over her hair to cover her face and set out towards the nearest train station. 

She kept her eyes down and her pace brisk, not risking a single second until she reached the garishly lit Aldgate station. There, under the harsh new electric lamps she allowed herself to reach into her basket and fish out the cigarette case. Upon opening it she nearly dropped her basket. It was full of banknotes. A huge wedge crammed in to the small tin, folded as small as possible. With shaking hands she opened them of them; five £1 notes. She nearly dropped the basket and screamed, her mind racing to explain but nothing came to her. A man jostled her shoulder walking in to the station and she retrieved a few coins and shoved the tin safely back in her basket, her lips tight and her eyes wide. She caught the underground train to King’s Cross and from there, the sleeper train to Dover. She barely slept, every ounce of her so alert she felt electrified. She was so stressed she barely took the experience in, she’d never been on a train and had daydreamed about it endlessly but all she could think about was the money she had. Was it wrong to take it? Who had done it? Who knew about her secret tin? Thomas briefly flashed through her mind but she discounted him pretty quickly. It puzzled and distressed her that she was left in the dark but what choice did she have? She couldn’t go back. Perhaps one day, she resolved, when my world is a little kinder, I can come back and find out who it was and maybe find some way to repay or at least thank the mysterious benefactor. 

After what felt like an eternity, the train finally pulled into Dover as the mid- morning sun rose above the channel. Without stopping for breath Isabel bought a ticket to Paris. At Dover she spent a restless day in the room of a small, cosy inn. She ate a little and slept a little before finally, finally boarding the boat that would take her to Paris.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small trigger warning here - there is a brief mention of violence towards animals.

Chapter two.

Isabel’s mother lied about Paris. In her bedtime stories it was a city of duels, dashing rescues, damsels in distress and glorious dresses. Upon first glance it seemed uncomfortably similar to London in it’s gloomy density and hurrying population. The inn Isabel decided on in a sleep-deprived spur of the moment was comfortingly sparse as she wasn’t quite ready to spend any of the mystery money she had unintentionally taken. It was a small, well lit establishment optimistically named ‘la joyeuse maison’. The owner spoke so quickly that Isabel struggled to keep up at first as she hadn’t practiced conversational French since the death of her mother five years before. Her room was small but clean and warm which was more than Isabel had allowed herself to expect. She took off her shawl and stripped to her shift, shivering in the night air, before climbing into the freshly made bed. For once, she wasn’t scared to sleep. She bathed in the silence around her and although she was dirty, exhausted and scared to be in a new city she fell asleep with childlike ease. 

The next morning, after a quick breakfast of warm, fresh bread courtesy of the landlady, Madeline, who moved as quickly as she talked and seemed to have unreserved energy. The older lady had clucked upon seeing Isabel that morning and immediately ushered her to the kitchen. While she ate, Madeline asked her a few questions whilst fervently cleaning the kitchen counter tops.   
‘May I ask if you are staying here tonight?’   
Isabel hesitated, she had thought about this long and hard on the ferry and eventually decided that her first job would be to find shelter, then perhaps some new clothes with the unexpected windfall. Once she was clean and proper with a fixed address she could begin looking for work. She explained this to Madeline who listened without comment and continued steadily to wipe the surfaces by the oven and replying only when Isabel asked if she knew of a hostel nearby with cheap accommodation for travellers getting on their feet.   
‘You have no family or friends in Paris?’   
‘No, madame’, Isabel answered, feeling slightly embarrassed.   
‘No job prospects?’   
‘No, madame’, she felt her neck heating with anxiety.   
Without warning Madeline spun round to face her and began to speak rapidly.  
‘How dangerous! You foolish girl! Alone with no prospects you could get into serious trouble! Disastrous! This is simply disastrous!’   
Isabel lowered her head, Tom’s gaze burned into her and she was about to beg the strange woman for forgiveness but Madeline carried on.  
‘Well you must stay here! Obviously! And my brother Jean can get you work, he’s the one! And you must get some new clothes from Marie’s! She’ll give you a good price or at least she will when she realises who has sent you! Now, is that bread warm enough?”  
Isabel opened her mouth, then shut it, then opened it again.  
Madeline shook her head and raised her hands up as if she was asking god for strength,  
‘Of course it isn’t!’   
Quick as anything she swiped the bread from under Isabel’s nose and threw it into the oven.   
‘Why are you being so kind, madame?” Isabel blurted out, ‘I’m nothing to you”  
Madeline spun round again and Isabel braced herself for another loud and confusing remark but this time she was quiet and for the first time since Isabel had met her, Madeline moved slowly, gently sitting next to her and taking the girl’s hand. Madeline’s hands were worked and red but to Isabel they felt soft and warm.

‘My dear,’ she said softly, ‘something that I have learned over the years and that I believe with more trust and devotion than any scripture or prayer, is that every day you should live your life with kindness and generosity - even if nobody sees it, even if you get no financial reward. It is our duty to each other as people’. 

Isabel felt herself begin to soften, the tension that she had held down to her very core since the day she first met Thomas began to yield. Her breathing became slightly easier and her mind a little calmer and clearer. She squeezed the older woman’s hand.

‘Thank you.’

In a second Madeline changed again, up on her feet in a flash as if she was allergic to sitting down, and back at the oven getting Isabel her warmed up bread.

‘Eat up dear, you have a busy day ahead’. 

Within a few hours Isabel found herself in a small boutique a short walk from Madeline’s. The owner, Marie, was a stylishly dressed woman in her sixties. At first she had intimidated Isabel who wore her old and fraying dress. However, the disapproving glare melted away as soon as Isabel produced Madeline’s note of approval. Madeline was clearly a dear friend, something Isabel was beginning to discover for herself. She left with a few new dresses and various pieces of outer and underwear suitable for a low wage but respectable worker. On her way back to the boutique she saw a young boy sat listlessly in a shop door. Without hesitating Isabel rummaged around in her bag and found some coins and a small paper bag of sweets that Madeline had pushed i to her hand on her way out the door earlier that day. The boy’s eyes widened as he hungrily grabbed what she offered, then he hesitated.

‘Why?’ he asked, cautiously. 

‘It’s our duty to each other as people’, she shrugged and continued her walk back. 

In Madeline’s kitchen sat a young gentleman whom Isabel soon discovered was the aforementioned Jean. Madeline’s nephew, he was as tall as his aunt but not quite as wound up. He smiled fondly at Madeline’s energetic cleaning/chatting hybrid and seemed to Isabel as if he had a kind face. 

‘Jean here works at the Opera house down the way’ Madeline explained, whilst inexplicably both peeling a carrot and stirring a pot of soup. 

‘Worked’ he corrected gently.

‘Quite right, quite right, worked. Jean worked at the Opera house but his dear wife has just had their third-’

‘Fourth’

‘Fifth daughter and so he’s found a better paying job a little way outside the city, better air you know? This dreadful population-’

‘Pollution’

‘Prostitution, anyway - it means that there is a job opening for you, my dear. The task of choosing and training his replacement has been left up to Jean and so if you can convince him, the job is yours!’

Madeline finished the sentence by ceremoniously dropping the carrot but quickly swept it up and continued peeling before anyone could take a breath. 

Isabel sat down cautiously across from Jean who was grinning at his aunt and nibbling at a small, flaky pastry no doubt shoved in his face the second he stepped through the door. 

‘Is there really a job going?’, she asked solemnly - professionally, she hoped. Isabel sat up a little straighter without realising. 

He met her eyes, ‘there is’. 

‘What kind of job?’

He shuffled in his seat, looking slightly uncomfortable, ‘I work at the Opera Populaire’, he said quickly and then watched her face closely.   
This meant nothing to Isabel and so she just nodded politely.   
His brows cleared with relief. 

‘Well my job is mostly closing the place up after an evening’s performance. Cleaning the seats, mopping the stage and steps, making sure all the doors and windows are locked, that sort of thing. It’s menial but easy, the only difficulty is that the building itself is such a maze it will take you awhile to find your way around.’ 

Isabel nodded, secretly thinking it sounded like child’s play when compared to the hours she spent in the cold and rain, selling flowers to irritated Londoners. 

‘I’m quick, stronger than I look and I’ve never missed a day of work’, she said confidently.   
Jean still didn’t look convinced, Isabel frowned. 

‘Let me have a trial week, no payment needed and then make a decision?’ she suggested desperately, the job sounded perfect.   
Madeline made a sound in the corner, a sort of harumph noise directed at her nephew.  
Jean softened.

‘Alright, we can start tomorrow. Be at the Opera house at 11 but be careful at that time of night, get a carriage if you can or better yet, someone to escort you.’ 

Isabel felt her heart begin to flutter, dizzy with hope.   
She nodded, smiling and certain that she could prove her worth. 

That evening, after a large bowl of soup and a long lecture from Madeline about safety at night in Paris, Isabel lay in her bed. She was wearing a new nightgown made by Marie. It was soft and warm with a tiny lace trim on each sleeve. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever owned. For the first time since she had arrived she allowed herself to think of Tom. He must have been furious, coming home in the early hours and finding her gone. Her hands began to shake slightly as she pictured his wrath. If he ever found her, if he ever tracked her down he would kill her. He could never stand his ego being bruised let alone destroyed by a woman leaving him. An old memory surfaced without warning, years before a dog had followed her home one day from London Bridge. A ratty little thing that had refused to leave her side and took every opportunity to lick her hands or lie on her lap. She named him Tapper, because she loved the sound of his paws tapping behind her. Thomas had barely noticed it first but when he eventually did he began to grow jealous. The dog adored Isabel and loathed him. Everytime Thomas went near Isabel the little dog would growl and snap his little teeth. One afternoon Thomas stood out in the front garden of the house, talking to a neighbour. Isabel walked out to see what was happening and Tapper followed. Thomas turned around at the sound of Isabel and the next moments were a blur. Whether Tapper assumed Thomas’ violent motion was a threat to Isabel or whether he was just venting weeks of anger, Isabel didn’t know but the dog leapt on Thomas gnawing and biting and thrashing and snarling. The neighbour began to laugh and Isabel’s heart sank. By the next morning Tapper was dead, motionless beside his sleeping mistress. 

In her bed at Madeline’s, Isabel’s eyes watered and she clenched her fists until it hurt. She focused on the lace patterns in her sleeves, following each loop and circle and frill until her breathing slowed and the tight pain in her chest eased. She was safe now. As long as she stayed with Madeline, worked nights and told nobody who she was or where she came from, even if he guessed she’d run to Paris - which she doubted - there would be nobody to betray her to him. She had briefly considered changing her name but felt a strong aversion to the idea, her name was the only thing given to her by her mother. Besides, she reasoned, Thomas was an ocean away. She was safe now, it was over.   
Isabel padded downstairs in her nightgown, quietly so as not to disturb Madeline or the other guests in the inn, and poured herself a small mug of milk. As she drank it she tried to feel grateful - at home none of these luxuries would have been allowed, but she still felt overwhelmingly panic at the idea of him finding her. So wrapped up in her thoughts she barely noticed Madeline’s arrival. It was always disconcerting to see Madeline moving slowly, Isabel guessed it was so as not to frighten her. Perhaps she did look a little wild, with red eyes and grey skin. She put down the mug, the noise reverberating in the silent kitchen. Madeline reached her hands forward and nodded her head, asking permission, Isabel realised. Isabel nodded silently at her unspoken request and Madeline folded her into a warm hug. She smelled like warm sugar and soap. Isabel melted into her arms and began to cry in earnest. Madeline said nothing, just continued to hold on to her and stroke the hair back from her hot forehead.   
After a few minutes Isabel mumbled an apology through hitched breaths.

Madeline’s grip got tighter, ‘never apologise’, she said quietly.  
Isabel nodded.

‘You’ve been through the wars, haven’t you doll?’  
Isabel nodded again. 

‘Don’t worry, you’re safe here and the sun can come out again, hmm?”   
Isabel said nothing but clutched Madeline’s nightdress harder.   
Madeline continued to stroke her hair and hold her, humming a gentle tune. Then she washed Isabel’s face and took her back up to bed like she was a small child. 

‘You sleep now my doll, nothing will happen to you within these walls. I promise you that. In the morning, everything will feel easier to bear’.

Isabel fell asleep quickly, tired out from her crying. She woke the next morning feeling stronger, just like Madeline said she would. The sun came out, breakfast was ready, and Isabel began to prepare herself for her new job at the Opera with clearer eyes and calmer thoughts.


	3. 3

No housekeeping today :-)

Chapter three.

Jean was right, Paris at night was no laughing matter for a young lady. Isabel tracked down a carriage and ordered them to pick her up in the evening, not prepared to leave anything to chance. Her new life was precious, she would look after it. Although she wasn’t afraid of hard work, Isabel still felt jittery and almost longed for her flower basket and well established route around London - almost. She had a moment of mild panic as she realised that she knew nothing about opera but then reasoned that knowledge of classical music had no bearing on how good you were with a mop and managed to settle herself. After a day that seemed to last forever the time had come to get in the carriage and go. Isabel dressed herself in a sensible but drab grey dress and Madeline sleepily handed her a small sack with bread, cheese and fruit. She thanked the old lady and pecked her on the cheek which earned her a sleepy smile and a teasing scoff. 

The carriage driver looked her up and down, clearly thinking the worst of a young lady going out into town in the middle of the night. Isabel matched his gaze, a sudden wave of righteous indignation washed over her. Who was he to judge her life? She got into the carriage and tapped on the roof, twisting her handkerchief in her hands to settle her nerves, squeezing the fabric until she was sure she’d worked the pattern right off it. 

‘Where are we going then, mademoiselle?”, the driver enquired in a slightly irritated tone - as if he was being forced to collude in sin. 

‘The Opera Populaire, please’, she responded, slightly enjoying the driver’s hitched breath. He certainly was easy to shock, she surmised. 

The driver really did seem stressed though and she took pity on him.

‘I’m the cleaner, monsieur, please don’t think you are helping me with anything immoral.’

As she said it she felt a pang of guilt, who was she to say what was immoral or not? Besides, she wasn’t exactly married to Thomas, that made her an outcast to many. 

‘You were there then?,” the driver could not contain his curiosity.

‘There? Monsieur, tonight is my first night,’ she replied, confused at his sudden enthusiasm. 

He made a disapproving noise, ‘you’d best hand your notice in as soon as you can then, mademoiselle, don’t play about with these people.’

Isabel began to panic, ‘what do you mean, monsieur? Please don’t try to scare me, it’s cruel’.

‘You really don’t know then?’ 

‘Know what?!’

‘About the affair last year, with the chandelier and the soprano?”

‘No! I only moved to Paris a couple of days ago, what happened?’ 

He whistled, ‘nasty business, in the papers for weeks afterwards.’

She really did feel sick then, ‘monsieur, please tell me’.

‘Well, it all began because a new soprano fell in love with a rich young aristo and they got engaged, right?’ 

‘Right’, Isabel listened with baited breath.

‘Well it turned out that the soprano had another lover - the opera ghost!”

Isabel deflated and sank back in her seat, irritation and relief battling it out within her.

‘Monsieur really, aren’t you a little old to be scaring young girls with ghost stories?’

‘It’s true! I swear on my wife’s life, the ghost got angry and tried to destroy the opera house, it was shut for months afterwards. There were police investigations and all sorts because some of the performers and staff got murdered that night and everybody knows it was the ghost!”

An uneasy feeling began to bother Isabel again, murdered people couldn’t be brushed away as a ghost story, what if there really was something sinister lurking at the opera? Something that she was walking straight into? 

The carriage rattled to a stop outside a huge, grand building lit in every window by glorious candelabras and chandeliers. Flocks of beautifully dressed nobles hung around on the steps outside waiting for carriages, no doubt, after their evening at the opera. 

Isabel paid the cabbie, who had the grace to offer her a small smile and a weak, ‘good luck,’ as he was immediately hailed by a young couple who appeared as Isabel disembarked. Jean had said nothing to her about a servants’ entrance and so she hurried through the main doors and into a velvet and gold foyer. A bored looking man with black curly hair and light brown eyes stood by the door wearing a small red waistcoat that Isabel guessed marked him out as an employee. 

‘Excuse me, monsieur?’ she approached him timidly. 

He eyed her, taking in her cheap dress and hollow cheeks.

‘We don’t allow beggars in the opera house, you must leave now,’ he spoke in an irritated manner and barely gave her eye contact as he dismissed her.

‘Excuse me but I’m here to meet Jean? I’m training to be his replacement,’ she said coolly, wishing she had the courage to snap at him for his rudeness. 

The man met her gaze with surprise, ‘you’re training to be the new closer? It’s no job for a woman’.

Isabel flushed, ‘well this one can manage it quite well, I assure you’.

Before the man could say anything else he was interrupted by Jean’s arrival.  
‘Sorry about that, Alexandre, I forgot to tell her where the employee’s entrance was’, he seemed out of breath. 

Alexandre huffed and nodded archly, dismissing them both by averting his gaze and solidly looking past them. 

Jean touched Isabel’s arm and gestured for her to follow him. They left the plush foyer and entered a series of small, poky corridors. 

‘Sorry about your welcome, Isabel. Alexandre likes to put on airs and graces but he’s alright really.’ Jean explained, effortlessly guiding her through the labyrinth of corridors, taking sharp lefts and rights without so much as a thought. He was right, Isabel thought, this was the tricky part of the job, navigating the building. Eventually they arrived at a small, grey office which was sparsely decorated with a small wooden desk and two chairs. 

‘This is technically the cleaners’ base, to change clothes or take breaks, that sort of thing. Nobody really uses it though and of course, the whole building will be empty soon so you’ll have complete privacy to change and rest and so on,’ Jean explained.

‘Change?’

Jean nodded, as if it was obvious. 

‘Well you can’t go about climbing ladders and squeezing into tight spaces and so on in one of...in one of those!” he said, gesturing at Isabel’s full skirt as if it were a living thing. 

Isabel’s heart sunk, she should have thought of that.

‘I don’t have anything to change into,’ she said quietly, ‘but tomorrow I’ll bring a lighter skirt’.

Jean shook his head, ‘no, no you’ll need trousers,’ he eyed her, ‘maybe Alexandre was right, maybe this really isn’t a job for a woman,’ he mused.   
‘I’ll wear trousers!’ Isabelle exclaimed, ‘I’ll wear a tutu and do a twirl if you want me to but let me show you what I’m worth.’

Jean nodded immediately, uncomfortable at her sudden outburst. 

‘Well, for tonight just watch me and then tomorrow you can try. No need to do any twirling.’ 

Jean also wasn’t joking about it being labour. There were hundreds of seats that needed checking and cleaning as well the seemingly endless mess left by these rich ladies and gentlemen that needed throwing away - cigarette stubs, dropped handkerchiefs and the odd train ticket. Then the mop came out, a huge splintery thing that gave Isabel chills just to look at it, she mentally added gloves to her shopping list. After the stage and steps were clean, Jean moved on to windows. Not just in the front of house but each rehearsal room, dressing room, ballet studio and storage room needed checking and locking up. This took up the bulk of their night. Isabel refused to be daunted by the sheer size of the place, neither by the confusing illogical layout. She would master it. She would show her worth. The shift ended with a quick look over the whole place to check for any cigarettes that hadn’t been put out or signs of any rodent infestations or homeless Parisians trying their luck. By the time they were done Isabel was sweating purely from the amount of stairs and running about and she hadn’t actually done any of the work. It was three by the time Jean locked up the employee entrance door behind them and the pair stood in the darkness, soaking up the cooling night air.   
‘What do you think then?’ Isabel jolted, he’d barely said a word to her the entire shift, so focused on his work. She thought for a millisecond and then said, ‘I can do it’. 

The week went past quickly with Isabel working at night and sleeping through most of the day. The feeling of naughty glee as she put on a pair of light cotton trousers was something she’d never forget but the real delight of the week was that she didn’t have any forceful memories of Thomas. She would be so exhausted it would take all her will not to just curl up in the foyer of the Opera house and sleep there until her shift began again. But she liked that, it was a nice tiredness, not like the soul deep exhaustion she felt in London, where she would fall asleep shivering and hungry with a headache and nauseous anxiety ever present in the pit of her stomach. Madeline kept her warm and full of food, practically throwing snacks at her every time she passed Isabel’s door. 

By the end of the week Jean couldn’t deny that Isabel was a hard worker and, with some reluctance, agreed that from the following week she would take up the position and her salary. That night she celebrated with Madeline, drinking wine, eating pastries and teaching her innkeeper the filthiest songs she could remember from the London pubs. It was only that night, as she drifted off to sleep feeling warm and slightly tipsy that a stray thought entered her mind just at the cusp of unconsciousness.

She had forgotten to ask Jean about the opera ghost.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Housekeeping - mentions of domestic violence.

Chapter four. 

Isabel settled quickly into a routine. Her first night alone was daunting and it’s true that the job was physically tough but she was used to hard work. Things around her began to fall into place.The cabbie who drove her on her first day returned sheepishly and introduced himself as Marc. He nervously laughed off her attempts to question him about the strange story he had frightened her with and quickly changed the subject to business. They agreed on a set weekly price and he became her regular driver. Isabel’s only day off was Sundays because the theatres closed to mollify the religious authorities. On those Sundays and Mondays she helped Madeline to run the inn, changing bed sheets and assisting with the account books. Her favourite part of the week was Sunday evening, when the two women would sit by the fire with wine and toast, chatting and laughing about their week. Madeline admitted to never reading newspapers and so any useful gossip about the opera ghost had completely passed her by, much to Isabel’s disappointment. Soon enough, however, she forgot about the strange rumour and became engrossed in her work. The maze began to make sense and soon the opera house felt like another home, navigating the winding corridors like it was second nature to her. Isabel also found that while she got physically stronger from the heavy lifting in the opera house, her mental state began to strengthen too. Thomas was still a spectre in her mind that occasionally threatened her newly found peace but somehow she could bear it. 

It was in her second week that a red flag began to wave in the corner of her mind. She had just changed into her cotton trousers and loose shirt and was walking out to the main corridor leading into the foyer, mindlessly tying her hair up with a white ribbon that Jean had given her as a good luck present. She was thinking, mundanely enough, about what time to eat the snacks Madeline had packed into her basket when a man shot out of seemingly nowhere and flew past her at such a speed that she staggered back a few steps before righting herself against the wall. The man stopped and turned on his heel, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Isabel couldn’t draw her eyes away from him. He was beautiful and utterly unlike anyone she’d met in Paris or London. Tall with smooth brown skin, shiny dark hair and handsome hazel eyes.  
‘Apologies, mademoiselle,’ he spoke softly in lightly accented French, ‘I didn’t expect to see anyone at this time of night.’  
She smiled, ‘no harm done, monsieur. I’m just the new cleaner.’  
‘Jean finally left then, did he?’  
She nodded, ‘I assume you work here, monsieur?’  
He smiled a little and muttered to himself, ‘you could say that’, before tipping his hat to her and leaving.  
Isabel had nobody to ask about the identity of this mysterious gentleman or what his position at the opera was since she arrived as the day staff left and the only one she’d been introduced to was sulky Alexandre who pointedly ignored her so she was left with her imagination. Perhaps he was a composer? Or tenor? He must be a tenor, a man that handsome could only ever be the hero of the story, she mused. 

A few nights later another mysterious event disturbed her peace. Her least favourite task of the evening by far was cleaning the floors under the seats. Cleaning up after careless wealthy patrons irritated her. How on earth could someone lose a diamond earring and not notice? Or a solid gold pocket watch? Or a bag stuffed with banknotes? What sort of life must you lead if those sorts of things could be dropped without a thought? Isabel would drop them off in the lost property safe at the end of her shift and was dismayed night after night to add to the pile of riches. It was this exact job she was reluctantly doing, picking up cigarette buts and crumbs from discretely eaten snacks during the long performances, when she spotted glass shards dotting the crimson carpet. Clearly someone had brought a sneaky bottle of alcohol or perhaps a lady had dropped a small perfume bottle whilst touching up her scent. Whatever happened, they had left a dangerous mess for Isabel to clean. She huffed and strode up to the crime scene, not noticing the lace of her right boot loosening before it was too late. She barely had time to breathe before she found herself falling and in a panic held out her hands to catch her fall, landing directly in the glass. Luckily she was only scraped a little, most of the glass had been trodden into the carpet and blunted slightly by it. Isabel hissed and sat up immediately, examining the cut. She couldn’t remember Jean mentioning any medical supplies or emergency procedure and she frustratedly racked her brains to figure out where they would be. She walked down to the cleaner’s base without much hope for success, carefully holding her hand so as not to leave any bloodstains that god forbid might frighten the patrons. To her surprise, sitting neatly on the desk that Isabel could have sworn had been bare at the beginning of her shift, was a small bandage roll, a little bottle of medicinal alcohol and a pair of delicate metal tweezers. She frowned and walked back out into the corridor but no footsteps echoed.  
‘Hello?’ she called out hesitantly.  
Her voice echoed in the corridors but no response came.  
Perhaps, she theorised as she gently pulled the slivers of glass in her thumb, it was the handsome gentleman who surprised her earlier that week. Her thoughts were disturbed by the bells of a nearby church that told her it was already two and she jumped up realising if she didn’t get a move on then she’d miss her carriage appointment with Marc. 

Later that week as Isabel sat with Madeline, sipping wine in front of the fire, she mentioned the strange event. Isabel tried to keep her tone casual, paranoid that the older woman would think her deranged. Madeline nibbled an almond pastry contemplatively.  
‘You must find a way to thank them,’ she said simply, after a minute.  
Isabel raised her eyebrows, ‘seriously?’  
‘Whoever it is they’ve helped you and so you must thank them,’ Madeline shrugged, taking another bite of pastry.  
‘But what if...what if it’s the ghost?’ she trailed off.  
Madeline smiled, ‘well they must be a rather amiable ghost to go around helping people in need.’  
Isabel laughed quietly, ‘I suppose you’re right, as always’, she said fondly.  
Madeline cackled, ‘I’ve been wrong in my time, don’t you worry doll! What shall you do then to thank this mysterious friend?’  
Isabel pondered for a bit, fiddling with her handkerchief when her gaze stuck on Madeline’s parlour wallpaper. It was a gentle cream colour with tiny golden yellow daffodils embedded in a regular pattern. She smiled.  
‘I know exactly how to thank them.’

One thing that could be said about Isabel, with absolute certainty, was that she knew about flowers. For ten years her days revolved around them, they were her friends, her only bit of light. Despite this her chest ached as she entered a small florist’s shop that, of course, Madeline had recommended. The floral scent washed over her along with feelings of panic and delight. She tried to push them down as she scanned the various bouquets and blooms that decorated the shop floor. She wasn’t completely fluent in the official language of flowers that ladies and gentlemen so adored back in London but she did know that hydrangeas and daffodils would get the message across. As she paid Isabel couldn’t help herself from buying a single peony and as she walked back to Madeline’s, basket swinging, with the bright and beautiful bloom threaded in her clean and brushed hair, Isabel believed she had never looked prettier. 

That night she left the flowers in the exact place that the medical supplies had been left. It felt a bit strange just leaving them there without an explanation and so, after rummaging around the desk drawers she found a slip of paper and a blunt pencil. Embarrassed, she painstakingly wrote a small message in imperfect French; ‘To the kind citizen who helped me last week, I thank you and offer these flowers as a token of friendship.’ She winced reading it over. It was overly formal and certainly not spelled correctly. Her mother had attempted to teach her to write but Isabel had only really grasped the basics. She was slowly improving thanks to her conversations with Madeline but her writing was still something to be desired, it was probably indecipherable. Shame prompted her to scribble out her message and replace it with a simple, ‘thank you’. 

She carried on her shift as normal but noted with pleasant surprise that by the time her shift was over the flowers and note had vanished. 

Winter was not quite so severe in Paris as it was in London. Isabel shivered to recall the nights she spent frozen and hungry, unable to feel her fingertips. She began to develop an irrational fear of the cold, constantly pouring out pot after pot of hot tea and piling blankets on her bed, The Opera house was freezing due the old, drafty layout. Occasionally she would be cleaning or locking doors and a sudden gust of cold air would bring goosebumps out on her hunched shoulders. She hated how it made her feel like she hadn’t left that dingy little room in Whitechapel. Isabel decided pretty quickly that her work clothes were far too thin and she thought longingly of the thick fabric of her dresses. She had also been negligent in buying gloves and usually, with irritation at her forgetfulness, spent the carriage ride home picking splinters out of her rough, worked hands. 

One night early in December, around a month after Isabel had moved to Paris, she was up a small step ladder fiddling with the lock of a large window which opened out of a ballet studio. She always felt uneasy in those studios, in the darkness the huge mirrors seemed to her to be miles deep and changing. The small lantern she carried with her was positioned at the bottom of the ladder, shining its light just enough for her to see what she was doing. Her numb fingers shook as she tried to position the key in the freezing metal padlock. She swore under her breath as her shivering threw her aim each time. She leaned back slightly, to crick her neck which ached from stooping down to the lock. Later she would say that it was the cold that muddled her brain or perhaps she was so tired she couldn’t think straight. Whatever happened she miscalculated and lost her balance. With a shriek Isabel slipped from the ladder, her arms awkwardly catching in the rungs on her descent. The lock and key clattered on the hardwood floor. The ladder careened and loudly crashed beside her, extinguishing the lantern. For a moment she sat there in disbelief, her eyes wide in the darkness, her body aching. She experimentally stretched her arms and flexed her joints. The rational part of her brain told her that there was no harm done, she’d just had a nasty surprise but she couldn’t quite calm her breathing. She felt the cold and dark closing in on her like someone had thrown a heavy blanket over her. Her mind kicked into overdrive and for a minute she was back in Whitechapel. She was shivering because Thomas had wasted all their money and had none left over for firewood. He was gone, god knows where, and she was left in that room in the dark. Her body ached from his leather boots kicking her until they burst and her ears rang from the shouts that she had ruined them. She felt as though she was stuck to the floor, her limbs too heavy to move and all she could do was pant wildly and wince at the horrible pain in her chest. She could feel herself getting lightheaded but felt powerless to do anything. Before her muddled and racing mind could catch up with itself, Isabel swayed where she sat and felt the cold floor against her cheek and the world tilted and disappeared. 

She woke with a start and winced. Her head throbbed and her eyes took a while to adjust. She was in the theatre, lying on a sofa in a private box above the stage. A thick woven blanket had been tucked around her. It was beautiful, woven with reds and purples and gold thread that glinted in the light of her lantern - which was blazing next to her with a fresh wick. At her feet she found a small golden flask, which upon closer inspection Isabel surmised was filled with brandy, as well as a small cake iced with white fondant. Cautiously she nibbled at the cake and drank the brandy feeling the life return to her. The brandy warmed her up and the cake, which tasted like almonds, gave her the energy to stand. 

‘Hello?’ She called out, her voice raspy and low from the brandy. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders she peered over the balcony and out into the theatre. Something drew her attention to her hands, which had been scraped on the ladder. They had been carefully cleaned and bandaged. The faint scent of witch hazel and rose indicated some kind of ointment had been applied as well. Isabel felt hot tears burn her eyes, she felt lost in the face of this kindness. She recalled a long night in London when she had fallen ill and sent Thomas to get her some medicine from the local chemist. fevered and thirsty Isabel lay for hours waiting for him to come back and when he did he was empty handed and half asleep. 

Bells rang from the nearby church informing her it was three and Isabel swore, grabbing the lantern and rushing down to the maze of corridors that lead one out backstage. If she wasn’t quick she would miss Marc and have to walk home in the dark and cold. To her complete and utter surprise, every room and window she walked past was locked despite the fact that the keys had not left the loop in her belt that they always stayed. Even the ballet studio which she reluctantly unlocked was spotless, the ladder folded away in the storage cupboard and the window locked as if nothing had happened. 

Marc respected her silence in the carriage, only speaking in concern upon seeing her bandaged hands. Isabel barely moved, just sat staring out of the window lost in thought. Although the blanket was lovely she had folded it and placed it on the desk in the cleaner’s office where she found a pair of soft black leather gloves and a small shiny tin of salve that smelled like witch hazel and rose. She felt uneasy in the face of such generosity and embarrassed of her reaction to falling from the ladder. Whoever was helping her surely must have been witness to her meltdown and this realisation made Isabel flush with shame. The overriding thought, however, that plagued Isabel through her journey home and long into the night as she lay in bed, was the resolve that she must meet whoever it was that was watching over her. She could not quite allow herself to believe it was a supernatural being and she reasoned to herself; what kind of supernatural being bakes cakes and knows about the restorative qualities of brandy? No, it must be an employee. Perhaps the mysterious gentleman that ran into her all those weeks ago? Isabel felt as if she must work out for herself whether this seemingly amiable entity was a threat or not. Thomas had entirely damaged her view of men and so, although she wanted to feel optimistic about the stranger, her memories of life with him put a dampener on that positivity. 

The next morning, after Madeline had fussed at her hands and scolded her a bit for not looking after herself, Isabel sat in her room perusing the gloves under the light of the morning sun. They were exquisite. The interior was lined with velvet and stylish white fur decorated the wrists. Isabel slipped them on feeling a little guilty, they fit perfectly and looked wonderful but they were so far out of her price range that they felt wrong. She resolved to return them and buy herself a cheaper alternative. One thing that Thomas had taught her was not to rely on anyone by being in their debt. She also formulated a plan. That evening, she decided she would tell Marc not to pick her up after work. Instead, she would bring some blankets and sleep in the cleaner’s office where her and the stranger swapped gifts. Hopefully she would catch her mysterious helper and ask some important questions.


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No housekeeping today:-)

Chapter five.

Inside the dreary grey cleaner’s base Isabel huddled against the desk, wrapped in blankets and clutching a flask of hot, sweet tea. It had just turned four and she had been sitting for about an hour since her shift had finished. On the desk above her she had neatly placed the gloves and a jar of expensive toffees to offer as a thank you gift. Tired from work she nearly dozed off and was about to give up hope when the door opened quietly in front of her. She jumped to her feet so quickly that the blankets nearly tripped her up. In front of her stood a man. Not the man who’d knocked into her that long month ago. A tall man, dressed formally with black hair and wide eyes, mirroring her expression of shock. This shock was warranted because obscuring two thirds of his face was a hard black mask which molded to his sharp features. To their mutual amazement, Isabel giggled. He looked as though he had wandered out of a children’s story or perhaps one of those gothic novels that booksellers were constantly trying to flog to impressionable young girls. This sudden burst of laughter seemed to irritate him and she stopped, not wanting to upset him. He didn’t seem to have found his voice yet so she spoke gently.

‘Forgive me monsieur but I had to meet my guardian angel,’ she smiled encouragingly.

This jolted him out his reverie. His wide eyes narrowed and he angrily turned to leave without another word.

‘Please wait!’ she cried.

He stopped, his shoulders tense but didn’t turn around.

‘I really am sorry for ambushing you, I just had to thank you for helping me,’ Isabel quickly grabbed the jar and gloves and carefully went to his side and held them out.

He cautiously took them with gloved hands, his head bowed so she couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

‘Thank you for all your help yesterday, it was very kind,’ she said softly.

The gentleman stared at the jar of toffees and gloves for a long few seconds.

‘You don’t like the gloves?’ 

A tremor ran through Isabel. His voice was glorious. Deep and so melodic she could listen to him speak for hours. 

‘Of course, they’re beautiful but I could never repay you, monsieur,’ she replied carefully, eager not to offend him. 

He shook his head, ‘I did not give them to you with any expectation of repayment, mademoiselle.’ 

Isabel frowned at this, ‘I couldn’t take them, monsieur, they’re far too…’ 

‘Why not?’ he asked quickly, ‘I want you to have them.’ 

She twisted the fabric in her skirt nervously. 

‘If it would make you happy, monsieur, of cou-’

‘No, no,’ he seemed frustrated, ‘they’re for you, for you to be happy.’ 

She didn’t have a response for that and just looked down at her boots, panicking. He seemed to understand her distress and after a small pause said; 

‘Thank you for the toffees.’

Isabel relaxed slightly, ‘you’re welcome.’

They were still awkwardly standing in the doorway and she gestured for him to take a seat by the desk with her, quickly kicking the blankets to make way for him. It struck her as some kind of strange job interview and she fought the urge to smile, since it upset him last time. 

‘May I have the pleasure of your name, monsieur? I know this is all quite unconventional but I must know who I am thanking.’ 

Unconventional was an understatement and yet Isabel didn’t feel unsafe meeting this stranger, she reasoned that if he wanted to physically hurt her he would have had many opportunities over the last month. This request seemed to throw him off guard. He hesitated, staring at the sweets intently as if they would give him an answer. 

After several seconds of struggling he stood and threw the gloves onto the desk.

‘This was a mistake, mademoiselle, you’d better forget we met,’ he spoke hurriedly and angrily, striding out of the room and away from a very baffled Isabel.

‘Wait!’ she shouted after him, ‘I’m sorry if I overstepped, please! Monsieur? I’m Isabel! Monsieur?!’ 

It was too late, he had disappeared through the maze of corridors and although she searched for nearly an hour, there was no sign of him. The only indication he had been there at all was the sight of her gloves haphazardly thrown on the desk.  
She finally gave up the search and snatched up the gloves and blankets. She was irritated and berated herself the whole way home - he was clearly shy and harmless and she had rudely ambushed him. The morning sun was beginning to rise as she stalked home in an attempt to walk the frustration out of her system. 

The mask was unusual but not too jarring. Isabel assumed he had suffered some sort of pox and was embarrassed by the scars or perhaps as an opera employee it was some eccentric new Parisian fashion. The thing that struck her as strange was his manner. As if he was unused to human interaction, he spoke stiffly and cautiously. She stopped in her tracks; his voice. His voice was the most extraordinary thing she’d ever heard and Isabel had immediately concluded that he was a singer. She thought perhaps one of these days she should really buy an opera ticket to see what the fuss was about because no music she’d heard in her life measured up to those few words he had spoken to her. She clutched the gloves close, relieved that he was clearly a benign force and obviously not supernatural or diabolical. She did have more questions though and her imagination ran wild trying to guess the answers. 

The next day Isabel arrived at work slightly earlier than usual and cornered an unwilling Alexandre. He gave her the same dirty look and fiddled with the programmes in his hand as if he’d rather be anywhere else on planet earth than this corner of this foyer with this irritating woman. 

‘I need to ask you some questions,’ she said bluntly.

‘And there’s nobody else you can ask?’ he responded accusingly.

‘I don’t know anybody else!’ 

He sighed and nodded fractionally. 

‘Am I the only night worker here?’

He nodded again, his eyes narrowing.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes,’ he huffed, seemingly offended, ‘of course you are, who else could there be?’

Isabel backed down from that line of questioning, clearly she had struck a nerve and displays of anger cowed her more than she liked to admit. 

‘Why?’ Alexandre prompted, irritated but reluctantly curious.

‘Oh, I thought I heard a door opening last night but it must have been the wind,’ she lied easily, a skill that was necessary with Thomas. Something in her warned against betraying the mysterious gentleman. 

Alexandre rolled his eyes and moved to walk away.

‘Wait a second - I want to ask you about the opera ghost.’

He scoffed, ‘you believe that rubbish, do you?’

‘Were you working here when the scandal with the soprano happened?’ 

‘No, they sacked all the employees afterwards and hired a team of new workers.’

‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’ she asked gently, trying not to aggravate him. 

He shrugged, clearly tired of the conversation. 

‘Look, I show up, work and then go home. I suggest you do the same.’ 

She nodded, thanking him and letting him go before a new question prompted her to call after him.

‘Is there nobody left who worked during the scandal?’

Alexandre didn’t bother to turn his head as he answered.

‘Well the soprano still sings here so this ghost of yours can’t be that powerful.’


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Housekeeping - brief mention of violence. If you enjoyed, leave a review and let me know :-)

Chapter six. 

Christine de Chagny was the soprano’s name. Posters from past productions that were hung up in the corridors proclaimed her to be ‘prodigal’ and ‘enchanting’. Isabel decided that the only way she was going to get answers about the mysterious man was from her. The nights following their unsuccessful first meeting she kept an ear out for him and was dismayed to find no note on the desk. Madeline had cautioned her about being too intrusive but Isabel’s paranoia drove her on. That isn’t to say she felt frightened to be alone with him in the opera house, she didn’t believe he would hurt her but she certainly didn’t trust him either.   
The first step was to see this soprano in action and Isabel reluctantly bought an unbelievably expensive ticket to see her, having to dip into the emergency stash she had burrowed away in the tin under her bed. It was a highly frivolous action but one that she felt was important. The production was ‘Tristan und Isolde’ composed by Wagner. Isabel felt like a guttersnipe in her plain white dress and worn leather boots, she kept her head down and watched the beautiful patrons milling about from beneath her eyelashes. The ladies were extraordinary to look at, dressed in enormous swathes of velvet and silk in rich, luxurious colours. Their hair was ornate and delicate, decorated with precious gems and bright feathers. Their jewellery sparkled in the candlelight. Isabel had not owned a mirror since she was very young and generally avoided her reflection in shop windows whilst she lived in London, embarrassed by her untidy, dirty appearance and influenced by Thomas’ consistent criticisms about her looks. The habit of not looking had remained in Paris. After all, she knew her hair was an unpleasant shade and her face had far too many freckles. She knew this because Thomas had told her enough times. Still, she had never consciously dwelled on her appearance as it felt pointless. That evening though she was more aware than ever of her inadequacy and as she sank into her seat she prayed that the performance would begin quickly to distract her. A young gentleman took his seat beside her. He was clearly wealthy, she noted, dressed exquisitely. He smiled at her briefly as he sat down but said nothing else. When the music began he seemed to vibrate with excitement next to her. This excitement grew and grew until eventually the soprano entered on stage and he seemed to explode with joy, clapping and whistling. The soprano. She was certainly beautiful with long golden curls and huge doll-like blue eyes. As Isolde she sparkled and her voice was indeed ‘prodigal’ and ‘enchanting’. Isabel knew nothing of opera and couldn’t judge with authority whether the production was a good one but she knew that this Madame de Chagny was talented. Apart from that, however, she was slightly bored. She had read a small summary of the plot before taking her seat but this didn’t make much difference. Isabel was used to the wonderful lilting storytelling of her mother or the rambunctious ballads she heard in the streets of London. She loved the dark songs of highwaymen hanged, lovers thwarted and, even better, the songs that eerily warned young girls about the king of fairyland whisking you away. They were simple and effective tunes that remained in your head for months afterwards and caused you to imagine drama around every corner. ‘Tristan und Isolde’ seemed to her untrained ears to be a mess of loud, violent music and long songs that left her mind the second the performers exited the stage. The opera was a tragedy and by the time it had finished there quite literally wasn’t a dry eye in the house although for Isabel it was tears of boredom and rage at the wasted money she’d spent. Her neighbour was weeping and clapping so hard she thought his hands would fall off. Madame de Chagny got a standing ovation, which she had the grace to look modest about, that seemed to last for an eternity and Isabel felt compelled to politely stand up as well. The gentleman turned to her halfway through, his eyes still wet, beaming like a lunatic.   
‘She’s wonderful isn’t she?’ he said in strangled excitement.  
Isabel nodded, ‘a real talent, monsieur,’ she said, trying to keep the boredom out of her tone.  
He didn’t seem to notice, ‘would you like to meet her, mademoiselle?’   
Isabel’s eyes widened and the young man laughed.  
‘She’s my wife, forgive me I’m a little too proud sometimes but I love introducing her to fans’  
Isabel realised who she’d been sitting next to and thanked whatever god that placed him there; this was the young aristocrat that the soprano had been involved in. He would be her ticket to the lady herself.   
Isabel nodded, suddenly a lot more enthusiastic about opera than a few seconds before.  
‘Monsieur, I’d love to! Thank you, it would be an honour to meet such a rare talent.’   
The Comte grinned, ‘wonderful! I shall take you to her directly, come this way mademoiselle.’  
He gestured for her to follow him and she feigned ignorance of the winding corridors that led to the main dressing room.   
‘I detect an accent, mademoiselle, may I ask where you were raised?’   
Isabel panicked. She had made it a sort of rule not to reveal any details about London on the off chance that word got back to Whitechapel.   
‘I am Irish, monsieur,’ she replied wildy hoping he didn’t casually speak gaelic or ask her anything about current affairs. Thankfully he was too focused on getting to his wife and barely seemed to take in her answer at all.  
‘Oh yes, yes, fascinating I’m sure. Ah! Here we are!’ he knocked briefly on the door and entered.   
In the middle of a sea of roses sat Christine de Chagny, looking tired but happy at her dressing table. She greeted her husband with a kiss on the cheek.  
‘My dear, you were magnificent as always. I wept and wept!’   
Christine laughed fondly, ‘you always do.’  
‘I don’t know how you manage it!’  
Isabel awkwardly moved to stand beside the Comte and, as she had hoped, her movement alerted the couple to her presence.  
‘Ah! My dear, this is...well, this is the young lady who was seated beside me this evening and she just had to meet you, she was simply overcome!’ he pushed her forward rather unceremoniously and Isabel felt a little irritated at the blatant lie but decided to let it go for her cause was more important.   
‘Madame,’ she began uncertain of how to address her, ‘you were enchanting this evening, simply prodigal.’  
Christine smiled and took Isabel’s hand, ‘thank you so much, how kind of you to say. Would you like to sit down?’   
She cleared some flowers away and Isabel perched uncomfortably at the edge of a pink sofa.   
‘Are you a regular patron?’ Christine enquired gently. Isabel was grateful for this generosity for it was quite obvious she was not.   
‘No, Madame. I had to make an exception for you!’   
‘You’re so sweet! What a delightful girl Raoul!’   
The Comte smiled proudly as if he had handpicked a new hat that his wife especially liked.   
Isabel took her chance while the couple were in good spirits.   
‘Actually, madame, I have a question to ask, if that’s agreeable to you.’  
Christine nodded encouragingly and began to cool herself with a delicately painted fan.   
‘Well, I only arrived in Paris recently and was told that there is a great mystery surrounding the opera house. A rather funny rumour of an eccentric ghost that goes around sabotaging performances, I wondered what you thought of the whole thing?’   
Christine’s face had paled remarkably quickly during this question, the fan frozen in midair, and Isabel immediately regretted phrasing it so flippantly. Before the soprano could recover herself a very red-faced Comte strode forward and grabbed her wrists, escorting her out of the room. He didn’t hurt her but he certainly wasn’t gentle.  
‘Do not return to this dressing room, mademoiselle, or I shall be forced to take this to the managers and they will not be so courteous,’ he spoke through gritted teeth and slammed the door.   
Although he hadn’t gripped her hard enough to leave marks or even raised his voice, Isabel felt nauseous. The rage of a young man still scared her very much and she sprinted to the cleaner’s office to take some breaths and sort her thoughts out. She quietly remained in the room until the clocks struck eleven and she knew that the building was empty. Only then could she truly calm herself.   
Sighing, Isabel reached for the basket she had stored beneath the desk which had her work clothes in but before she could touch it the door swung open with a bang and she jumped in fright.   
It was the strange man. He stormed in and slammed the door behind him, his eyes were like chips of glittering obsidian. Isabel felt herself begin to shake.


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Housekeeping - 
> 
> t/w for mentions of domestic violence.
> 
> Two chapters today; I hope you enjoy :-)

Chapter seven.

The scariest sort of anger is quiet. His limbs were locked into place as if he was fighting to remain still.   
‘You will stay away from that woman or I shall make your life extremely unpleasant’ he snarled.   
Isabel stared dumbly.   
‘Do you understand?’ he roared, finally losing his control.   
She nodded jerkily, wide eyes fixed on him.   
He took a step towards her and she ducked down behind the desk instinctively. The atmosphere settled in the room for a second as surprise shook him out of his rage. He closed his eyes for a second, summoning the strength to calm down before taking a step back. Isabel rose awkwardly, her pulse still racing in her throat. She sat down and quietly gestured for him to do the same, which he did. It was an odd dance of etiquette between the unwilling participants.

‘Why did you do it?’ He seemed suddenly defeated.   
‘I had to know who I was talking to,’ she fiddled with her handkerchief, staring at it intently.   
‘Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?’  
‘It’s just not in my nature, I suppose’  
‘An exhausting trait, I’m sure.’  
Isabel snorted, ‘You don’t know the half of it.’  
She couldn’t be sure but Isabel swore she saw his eyes crease a little.   
‘I wish I could see your face,’ she blurted out.   
He stiffened, ‘why?’  
‘Facial expressions are helpful when you’re chatting aren’t they?’  
‘I wouldn’t exactly call this a ‘chat.’’  
‘Okay, then what would you call it?’   
‘A warning. I’m serious, do not go near that woman again.’  
‘Why?’ Isabel asked quickly, ‘what happened?’  
‘That’s none of your business,’ he said sharply.  
‘I have a right to know who I’m alone with all night!’  
‘If we’re working with that logic then you should tell me why you flinched before? Or more importantly why a young, foreign girl randomly appears in a new city with no connections and takes on possibly the most bizarre profession in Paris?’   
‘That’s different’  
‘Why?’  
‘Because I’m not a threat to you’  
He paused for a second before muttering, ‘oh I’m not so sure about that.’  
‘Please just tell me who you are and what you do here, I can’t relax until I know’  
He hesitated.   
‘I promise I’m extremely discreet,’ she sounded desperate.   
He still seemed reluctant.   
‘Your name, at least?’   
He softened and took a breath, ‘you may call me Erik. If you wish.’  
She smiled, ‘thank you. I’m Isabel’  
‘Yes, you bellowed it for hours after our last meeting’   
She laughed nervously, ‘to be fair to me it was an extremely confusing night.’  
‘What do you do here?’ She asked, eager to keep the conversation flowing.  
‘I’m a sort of...musical director.’  
‘Ah, a creative. Is that why you keep such odd hours?’   
‘I’ve always had odd habits’  
‘I’m beginning to see that’   
‘You are safe though, with me here,’ he said quietly.   
‘What about Christine-‘  
‘I will answer no more questions tonight,’ he was clearly tired of her persistence.   
‘Where do you go? Where’s your office?’ Isabel stood anxiously, trying to keep him with her and afraid she had insulted him.  
‘No more questions tonight, you’re far too inquisitive for your own good and I must leave you.’  
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry Erik you don’t have to go.’  
‘I should be going anyway, I have work to do,’ he stopped at the door, ‘have a pleasant night.’  
‘Goodnight.’

At least she had a name for a, well, a masked face. Isabel decided to keep up this tentative acquaintance and the next evening she left a generous jar of Madeline’s famous peach jam accompanied by a small label that read simply, ‘Erik’. The night after she left a bag of crumbly sweet mints. On the third night she left a little block of vanilla fudge wrapped in red ribbon. On the fourth night Erik intercepted her leaving a pouch of soothing tea leaves.   
‘Should I be concerned about these bribery attempts,’ he said dryly in lieu of a greeting.   
‘They’re not bribes! They’re simply tokens of...of friendship!’   
‘Forgive me for not believing you.’  
‘You can believe what you like; I know my intentions.’   
Isabel froze for a second, speaking like that would have earned her a sharp slap from Thomas but there was a different expression in Erik’s large, dark eyes. He seemed to enjoy her snapping at him.  
‘Claws away Kitten, I come in peace,’ he drawled, picking up the pouch of tea.   
‘It’s Camomile,’ she said quietly, ‘you should be asleep at this hour.’   
He met her gaze, ‘as should you.’  
‘I have a job to do.’  
‘So do I.’  
‘You can’t work during the day?’   
‘I find my mind is sharper at night.’  
Isabel nodded and moved to take the tea from him but he pocketed it.   
‘It’s still helpful to have around,’ he said quickly, ‘thank you.’   
Isabel smiled discreetly, ‘you’re welcome.’  
‘Why do you insist on leaving gifts? My services that night were offered free of charge.’  
‘It seemed to me like you needed some presents in your life,’ Isabel looked down, suddenly embarrassed.   
‘Thank you,’ he said softly, ‘you are very kind to me.’  
‘Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?’  
He didn’t answer. 

A couple of weeks passed and Isabel had settled into a small routine with Erik. She would leave him little gifts every now and then and in return they would talk for a while at the beginning of her shift. The contents of their conversation was nothing too exciting, mostly comments about the presents which gradually descended into outright teasing on both ends. It was a tentative friendship but Isabel valued it. Erik, Madeline, Jean and Marc were the only people in Paris who knew she was there and she was comforted by the fact that at least someone would notice if she wasn’t around; maybe they’d even help her if Thomas came sniffing around. Perhaps it was this calm complacency that prompted the fates to push her a little more over the edge.   
It finally happened one Wednesday afternoon. Isabel had just woken from up and was already thinking about the evening shift. She was planning on bringing Erik some leftover Victoria sponge she had baked when she noticed a letter wedged under her door. Madeline often posted Isabel’s correspondence under the door so as not to disturb her as she slept. Up until this point it had been mostly letters from the Opera house, informing her of salary changes or cancelled performances. This letter, however, clearly was not from the Opera house. Cheap, thin paper and dirty, as if it had travelled a long way. Her true surname was scrawled on the back. A name she hadn’t breathed since stepping foot in Paris. Her heart sank to her knees as she opened it with trembling fingers. 

In the middle of a very sooty, creased sheet of paper, somebody had scrawled in childlike handwriting; ‘I’ve found you.’


	8. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Housekeeping - mentions of domestic violence.

Chapter eight. 

There was no doubt in her mind as to the author of the note. Who else could it be? In a daze she stumbled through her usual routine, unwilling to tell Madeline why she was so out of sorts. Irrationally she believed that if she told anyone all the horrible what-ifs would come true, as if she had the power to speak horrors into existence. So wrapped up in her pained thoughts Isabel behaved mechanically. She forgot to bring Erik a slice of cake, travelled to work in complete silence without greeting Marc and barely had the energy to even glare back at Alexandre as he left the building. She didn’t tie her hair up with the white ribbon that was always neatly folded on the desk. She didn’t lace her shoes tightly enough. She didn’t pay attention. 

Coincidentally, it was the same spot she had fallen from weeks earlier. She was fiddling with the lock, her eyes glazed, her limbs heavy like lead. Her mouth was still clamped shut, in fact she hadn’t said a word since the terrible note had thrown her life into chaos. She shuffled to the side to ease the aching in her shoulders and neck, trapping the lace and throwing her off balance. This time she didn’t have good enough reflexes and she fell like a stone, smacking her head against the cold wooden floor. 

Everything hurt. That was all Isabel could focus on as she blearily woke up, utterly disoriented by the darkness of her surroundings. She could have been unconscious for five minutes or a hundred years and she wouldn’t have found it strange. Her arms and legs ached fiercely and she winced trying to stretch herself out to survey the damage.

‘Be careful,’ came a voice in the darkness.

She jumped and then winced again. A lit lamp drew her attention to Erik, who was sat staring disapprovingly at her.

‘What did I tell you?’

‘Where am I?’ She asked hoarsely.

‘Somewhere safe,’ he replied, ‘you fell again.’ 

The room she was in was beautiful, the carpet was a deep burgundy and the wallpaper cream and gold damask. She was lying in bed, with silk sheets tucked up to her waist.

‘Where am I?’ she repeated, unnerved. 

‘What frightened you?’ he asked, quietly, ‘you were so quiet all night.’   
‘An unexpected letter,’ she replied, surprised at her own honesty. 

Erik stared at her evaluatively, ‘I shall fetch some tea and you can tell me about it.’ 

Isabel shook her head, ‘my work! How long have I been asleep?’ 

‘Relax, it’s not even two.’

‘I must get back to work or I wo-’ she was panicking, the last thing she needed was to lose her job.

‘It’s done,’ he said simply.

‘Done?!’ she exclaimed in disbelief.

‘You had managed a good deal of it anyway, just relax and wait there.’ 

A few moments later he returned with a small jade teapot and a delicate cup and saucer.  
Isabel sniffed the brew, it was the same tea she had gifted him. She smiled a little and he nodded back, his eyes lighter. 

‘Drink and talk,’ he ordered, ‘don’t leave anything out.’

‘Why do you care so much what has frightened me?’ she blurted out, still unused to random acts of kindness. Erik seemed in a similar state of confusion.

‘Is that not what friends do?’ 

Isabel properly smiled this time, a full and uninhibited grin, ‘I suppose so.’ 

He gestured for her to begin talking.

‘I’m from London, Whitechapel to be exact. When I,’ she took a breath, ‘when I was fourteen I met someone. I was an orphan, I had hardly any money and he offered to let me lodge with him for cheap. He was clearly...interested and it was either him or the workhouse.’

At this, Isabel laughed coldly, ‘I should have chosen the workhouse. He wasn’t a good man and so I ran away. My mother was Parisian so I decided on a whim to come here. I thought it would be safer to get a night job and keep away from people but it wasn’t enough. I got a note from him yesterday, he knows where I am and it’s only a matter of time,’ she felt hot tears spring up in her eyes, ‘he knows where I live and he’s going to kill me.’

‘No, he isn’t’. 

Isabel looked up to see Erik staring at her intently.

‘He won’t touch you I swear to that.’ 

‘You can’t swear to that, I have nowhere to run to and he’s found me,’ she said helplessly, ‘all I can do is wait.’ 

He shook his head and repeated firmly, ‘he won’t touch you.’

‘What can I do? You’re being ridiculous!’ 

‘He won’t touch you, if he tries, I’ll kill him.’ 

‘You don’t mean that. I appreciate you trying to make me feel better but don’t say such things.’

Erik stood quickly, as if electricity was shooting through his veins.

‘Your friend at the inn, does she know of this?’

‘How do you know about M-’

‘Does she?’ he interrupted, impatiently.

Isabel shook her head.

‘We’ll send a note with Marco, explain that you have to go away for a little while and ask her to pack your things. Marco can bring your suitcases back here.’ He seemed more to be talking to himself than her.

‘You aren’t making sense, I don’t even know where ‘here’ is!’ she cried out. 

‘My home. You are in my home, beneath the opera house.’ He admitted reluctantly.

‘You live under the-?’ she trailed off in disbelief, ‘how on earth-’

‘You can stay with me for a few weeks. This...this ‘Thomas’ can go where he likes in Paris but he’ll never find you. You can work at night quite safely. Then once he’s given up or gone elsewhere to look, you can return to your innkeeper and all will be well again.’   
‘  
‘You’re mad! I can’t just move in, it’s scandalous, it’s not proper.’

‘Would you rather be alive and scandalous or dead and proper,’ he shot back, ‘besides, you aren’t married to this man are you? Yet you lived with him’

Isabel didn’t know how to explain that she simply didn’t care what people thought of her in London. She lived each day unsure if she would starve or get ill or get beaten to death and the opinions of others didn’t matter one penny to her. But in Paris she had a chance at respectability. A chance that would very quickly disappear if she moved in with a bachelor. 

‘You would really die for your reputation?’ he scoffed, disgusted, ‘typical.’ 

This riled her up, ‘what do you mean ‘typical’? It’s alright for you, men can do what they like in society and walk away unscathed as long as they’re discreet. Women have one lifeline - their reputation. If it’s taken away your life is over, your prospects are gone.’ 

‘You would still choose death?’

She hesitated and he jumped at it, ‘ha! Maybe there is hope yet for you.’ 

‘Hope?’ 

‘Hope that you come to the realisation, sooner rather than later, that society is not where life is. This society you speak of is where life dies.’

He spoke so passionately that Isabel felt herself swaying to his will. After a long and tense moment of silence she finally nodded her head. 

‘I’d better write the letter to Madeline before I change my mind.’

Erik’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction and a small amount of surprise, ‘you can write?’ 

She flushed, ‘how do you think that thank you note came about?’

‘I thought perhaps your friend had written it for you, women of your class aren’t usually that-’

‘What?’ she interrupted angrily, ‘clever?’ 

‘Lucky,’ he answered smoothly, ‘lucky enough to learn.’ 

‘Oh’ she felt guilty, ‘sorry it’s just a knee jerk reaction.’ 

‘Perfectly understandable,’ he smiled and, although she could not see all of it, Isabel firmly decided that she would do anything for that half smile. 

Isabel settled down to write the letter but she could sense Erik staring at her from his position across the room. At first she didn’t notice, too engrossed in the beautiful thick writing paper and emerald tortoise shell pen. 

‘What is it?’ she asked quietly.

‘You scribbled out half of the thank you note. Why?’ 

‘It was terrible grammar, I’m really quite awful at French.’ 

‘You speak it beautifully and I’m sure you write the same way.’

She flushed at the unexpected compliment, ‘thank you,’ she muttered under her breath, trying to ignore the answering laugh.

‘I shall have to compliment you more if that’s the reaction I get.’ 

She realised with surprise that he was teasing her. 

‘I wouldn’t object,’ she answered, a smile rising on her lips, ‘now, let me concentrate.’

She managed to distill her situation into a short letter to Madeline. A letter she hoped wouldn’t cause too much anxiety and, with a wave of fondness for her dear innkeeper, wrote a postscript.

-Please do not worry for me, I am quite safe. You have been my saving grace in Paris, Madame, I do not think I would have survived the first week without your kindness. I love and cherish you and will miss you terribly.-

Isabel felt a pang in her chest as she handed the letter over to Erik with shaking hands.

‘It is the most sensible thing you can do,’ he said softly. Isabel nodded and took a fortifying gulp of tea. 

‘You should rest, you’ll have some nasty bruises on you tomorrow morning from your fall. I’ll take this to Marc,’ Isabel grabbed his arm before he could move away and he froze. She got up on her knees and wrapped her arms around his shoulders awkwardly.

In his ear she said quietly, ‘I have so many things to thank you for, I am quite at a loss. Thank you for helping me when I fell. Thank you for the tea. Thank you for listening to me. Thank you for believing me without question. Thank you for welcoming me to your home. Thank you for everything you have done, you are such a good friend to me, I’m not quite sure what I’ve done to deserve it.’ 

He was still stonelike and unmoving beneath her grasp. She unwound her arms and rocked back on her feet, suddenly nervous she had upset him.

‘I’m so sorry, I should have asked you if you were comfortable with hugs,’ she said, peering up at him, concerned.

He shook his head and grabbed her hand quickly and Isabel thought she could feel a tremor. 

‘Your friendship more than repays me,’ he said shakily. Then, as quickly as he had grabbed it he pulled away and stalked out of the room. Isabel lay back on the bed, trying to slow her breathing. It would be a long night lying there; thinking about the man she was now living with.


End file.
